


Friendship is Magic

by SporkofDoom



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:02:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25693993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SporkofDoom/pseuds/SporkofDoom
Summary: At a loss after the world is saved, Crowley explores his life's purpose. Aziraphale has a confusing but enlightening afternoon with the demon he loves. Aziraphale learns a little more about his beloved demon. Meant to be humorous as well as serious, and Mizmak found it quite funny.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 9





	Friendship is Magic

Crowley reached morosely for his bottle of Beaujolais. He was seated in his favorite stuffed brown armchair in the flat he shared with Aziraphale, watching _My Little Pony_ on the new 70-inch television that he had purchased recently. The TV took up much of the wall across from him, hung high on the pale blue walls of the sitting room. He suspected Aziraphale had doubts about indulging him in the television

Eugenie slept with her tail across his feet. The short-haired, chocolate and tan dachshund that Aziraphale had given him for Christmas always tried to sleep on Crowley to make sure he did not disappear. She loved Crowley, but he required some management. The demon had a long history of quixotic disappearances.

“What’s the matter, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, as he walked in from the kitchen with a plate of chocolate chip cookies.

“What am I doing here?” Crowley asked.

“Excuse me?” Aziraphale looked shocked. “Where else would be you be?”

“What am I doing here?” Crowley repeated.

“Ummm… drinking Beaujolais?” Aziraphale had no idea how to answer Crowley’s question.

“Well, yes. But what does my Beaujolais accomplish, Aziraphale? What is my purpose in life?”

“To become intoxicated?”

“Well, that’s rather pathetic, don’t you think?” Crowley tossed his empty wine glass toward the kitchen, careful to avoid the piles of books to either side of him. Shards of glass flew around, and Aziraphale put the cookies on the walnut end table beside Crowley, reaching down to pick up Eugenie.

“Think of little paws,” he chided gently, performing a tiny miracle. The glass pieces rose and reformed themselves into a wine glass.

“You rather like getting smashed,” Aziraphale sat down in a matching brown armchair and placed his tea on the end table between the chairs. He leaned back and smiled encouragingly at Crowley. “Why not do what you like? Thanks to Adam, Anathema, and yes, even Newt, we don’t have to worry about Armageddon now. The War to End All Wars fizzled out. You can relax. Drink all day long.”

“I can’t imagine that’s what you want,” Crowley observed thoughtfully. “Don’t you deserve better?”

“Er…” Aziraphale did not know how to answer that. He supposed he might deserve better, although he had been traipsing all over the world with Crowley, and his best friend had often been intoxicated. But he didn’t want to change Crowley. A sober, better-behaved Crowley would not be Crowley. And he could always ask Crowley to sober up. Demons could put the wine back in the bottle so fast that the wine never knew it had been gone.

They were both at somewhat of a loss in this time of peace. Non-Armageddon was receding into the past. Suddenly, neither was answering to anyone. Not that they had been answering to anyone in the past, with Crowley falsifying his reports and Aziraphale only paying lip service to Gabriel’s schemes, but their daily lives had felt purposeful before this new quiet. Deceiving Heaven and Hell had taken a great deal of energy, as well as careful planning.

Now…

Aziraphale was mostly fine. He had his books, so many books, and he finally owned his time. He could read all day and all night if he chose. He owed explanations to no one except the demon beside him, and Crowley had always been remarkably accepting of Aziraphale’s quirks. If he said, “just a few minutes, I have a chapter to finish,” Crowley always obliged him.

They had a simple life, but a good one. Aziraphale read. At times, they went out into London. They had Eugenie to walk, a welcome routine in the day. The two of them drank sake at various sushi bars, Aziraphale remarked on the quality of sea eel that Crowley never touched. They stopped in French bakeries to pick up Aziraphale’s dessert, which Crowley sometimes nibbled. They dabbled in other cuisines – or he did, while Crowley sipped the bottle du jour -- before strolling through rose gardens and along lakes. They watched sunsets from park benches. Crowley drove Aziraphale and Eugenie out to Tadfield for the occasional visit with their friend Anathema. Dog and Eugenie played, while Aziraphale and Anathema baked, and Crowley…

What did Crowley do? Aziraphale realized he honestly did not know. He sat at the table and drank Newt’s beers. Sometimes he talked with Newt. What did they talk about? What exactly had Crowley been doing lately?

Crowley had obligingly tagged along with Aziraphale after non-Armageddon, moving into the flat above the bookshop. Aside from a rather absurdly large television and a respectable, oak wardrobe, he had brought almost nothing into Aziraphale’s flat except himself and a few pieces of memorabilia, reminders of Leonardo DaVinci mixed in with objects that captured his feelings for Aziraphale over time, such as the 1941 Eagle lectern, taken from the church he had braved to save the angel. Unlike Aziraphale, Crowley cared little about physical objects except for his car and those few memories. He had hung his television, and then simply sat down in the plush brown armchair that became ‘his’ chair, instantly becoming the center of Aziraphale’s daily life.

That fact had gone unremarked by either of them. They belonged together. Aziraphale had realized that after Armageddon and he thought Crowley had known for centuries, perhaps millennia, longer. The angel’s life was incomplete without his demon companion.

Sometimes Aziraphale thought that Crowley drank as much as he did because he could not stand to see the myriad details that he so naturally took in at a glance. Crowley _saw_ so many nuances that Aziraphale missed. Was that a demon thing, a Crowley thing, or both?

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale said quietly. “I have not been paying attention. I have been so busy working my way through Gibbon’s _The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_ that I am afraid I may have missed something.”

“I know why you are reading those books.” Crowley gestured to the armchair on the other side of the end table. He dumped Aziraphale’s tea into a nearby potted corn plant, waving a hand toward the cookies, and did a small piece of magic himself. Two cups of hot chocolate with Pernod-flavoured marshmallows appeared on either side of the table. Crowley poured a generous dollop of brandy into his own cup, setting bottle on the table in case Aziraphale felt like doing the same,

“Getting ready for the next attack?” Crowley asked.

“Well, Rome fell,” Aziraphale answered. “How could such a thing happen? The Romans were so much more advanced than the Visigoths. I thought I might get some ideas in case we ran into… um, old friends.”

“You were reading _The Art of War_ by Sun Tzu, too. Learn anything?”

“You have to defend existing positions until a commander is capable of advancing from those positions safely.”

“Not sure that helps. There are only two of us here.”

“Yes. That’s the problem with the _Art of War –_ great advice, but how are we going to starve out heaven or hell? They don’t even eat. How are we going to march our nonexistent armies to places where we are not expected? I found one useful suggestion: Even though the enemy is stronger in numbers, we prevent him from fighting. God could do that.”

“Yes, that works,” Crowley observed. “Depends on _her,_ though.”

Aziraphale took a bite of his chocolate chip cookies, then a sip of hot chocolate.

“I think we are getting off the subject,” he said. “You asked about your purpose in life.”

“I did,” Crowley agreed. “I mean, I see your purpose. Or purposes. You are trying to find the world’s best sushi while getting ready to save the world once again. Right. Good plan. But what’s my purpose?”

“You don’t have to eat sushi. You could just save the world.”

“Save the world.” Crowley sighed. “It seems like one of us is already on that, and I am not sure it’s me. My purpose, I mean.”

He reached for the remote.

“You won’t believe what progress they have made with electronics in the last decade or two. Do you see this thing?” He held out the remote.

“Yes,” Aziraphale blinked. This was going to be one of those conversations then, one of the snakelike ones that kept slithering sideways. “The gray thing with the buttons. It always confuses me.”

“It’s simpler now. You just talk to it.”

“Talk to it?” Aziraphale stared at the remote.

“Yes, you push this blue button, here in the middle. Then you say, ‘My Little Pony’ and the box takes care of it. You see? We have a number of choices to make now, but all of them lead to ponies.”

“Ponies.” Aziraphale nodded, looking at the screen. “Humans seem to have made a lot of ponies.”

“Not so many. Ponies, that is. Lots of episodes and toys, though. You ought to check them out.”

“I’m rather busy,” Aziraphale objected.

“Makes a lot more sense than that Roman Empire thing,” Crowley observed. “Pretty sure you know what happened back then better than that Gibbon fellow does.”

“Ponies,” Aziraphale repeated. “But what is the point, my dearest? What does this have to do with your purpose in life?”

“Do you remember the greatest line ever in an Eric Burden and the Animals song?” Crowley asked.

“Excuse me while I kiss this guy?” Aziraphale smiled over his hot chocolate, arching his eyebrows.

“So wrong.” Crowley shook his head. “In the first place that’s Jimi Hendrix -- who is _so_ not Eric Burden. And the actual line from the song is, ‘Excuse me while I kiss the sky.’”

“It’s a good song.” Aziraphale defended himself.

“Oh, yeah. Purple Haze might get on my best song list. But I was thinking of, ‘You want to find the truth in life, don’t pass ponies by.’”

Aziraphale looked suspiciously at the brandy bottle. Crowley poured a shot in both their cups.

“Eric Burden sang that?” Aziraphale asked.

“Well, he was talking about music, not ponies, but it’s the same idea.”

“I’m a little lost.” Aziraphale reached for another cookie. 

“Bet Burden was a real Brony,” Crowley said reflectively. “Real fan of the ponies. Probably collected whole houses full of toy ponies and unicorns.”

“I think you are making that up,” Aziraphale said firmly.

“Well, yes,” Crowley admitted. “The timing is probably wrong. Born too soon, that kind of thing. If he had come along later, though, Aziraphale, I believe he would have understood. It’s all there.” Crowley waved a hand toward the TV.

Aziraphale studied Crowley, who was clearly in his cups. He thought about asking the demon to sober up. If Crowley put the brandy back in the bottle, though, sobriety might shut down the conversation. The truth was his oldest friend had become secretive by nature over the millennia while trying to evade hell’s wrath, and this somewhat tortured conversation had started in an important place.

Aziraphale looked between Crowley and the TV. He had certainly not understood why Crowley wanted the TV. In a flat full of books! With a TV, you had to buy noise-cancelling headphones. You had to shut doors tight to prevent sound from spilling out. And there was the embarrassment of those many buttons. What _did_ they all do? Crowley seemed to know, but Aziraphale was always struggling with the gray thing. Even when he stuck carefully to power, mute and the channel numbers, other buttons seemed to leap out at him. Input seemed particularly dangerous. Whatever “they” input, it sometimes wiped out one’s TV show.

“So am I to take it that you are concerned about your purpose in life?” Aziraphale tried again. “What’s wrong with saving the world?”

“Well, as Shit Tzu would say, ‘He will win who knows when to fight and when not to fight.’”

How did Crowley know that part of _The Art of War?_ Eager for a book discussion, Aziraphale almost veered off to explore this unexpected knowledge, but then pulled himself back to the matter at hand.

“We still have to save the world,” he said sensibly.

“But right now, Aziraphale, I think it’s time to take a step back. The world is safe. We don’t have to go to war. We can go to Filbey’s Bistro on the Isle of Man instead. Or we could pop up to the moon. Just to have a picnic. Watch some food explode in the vacuum. On the dark side, we could leave the ice cream out all day. Does ice cream melt anywhere on the moon? I don’t know. We could find out.

“We have _time_ , Aziraphale. Maybe you had time before, but I didn’t. I’ve never had time. I was always too busy keeping myself out of hell, trying to look busy, like I was accomplishing my mission, whatever that was. I mean the M-25 motorway, completely inspired. I did some good work. But what am I supposed to do now?”

“You could read,” Aziraphale suggested.

“I’ve tried it. Not bad, but not exactly a raison d’être. That ‘War’ book was pretty good. Short. I like that. Polished it off last week in some dingy Soho bar when you went to that estate sale. Not exactly me, but lots of good tips for everyday life in that book.”

“You could try to find the books that are you!” Aziraphale was excited. Crowley was the perfect companion in so many ways. If they could discuss books…

“Still not a purpose in life. I mean, reading all of Stephen King. That could keep me busy for years, but a life’s purpose -- that’s bigger than _The Shining_ or _It_. Bigger than what I do everyday. A life’s purpose… Aziraphale, a life’s purpose is what’s underneath it all. It answers the question: Why am I here? Not in this flat, but here... on Earth with my best friend just in time to step in front of the truck that was meant to be Armageddon. Only the truck’s gone now. It’s just us.”

Distracting pastel ponies with colorful manes and tails flitted across the screen.

“You’re not the boss of me, your Royal Snootiness,” one pony said.

“Rainbow Dash,” Crowley explained.

“Excuse me?”

“That’s her name. The blue pony with the orange, red and yellow mane. She’s Rainbow Dash.”

“They have names?”

Crowley groaned.

“Of course they have names! And I’m still not a bleeding aardvark.” Crowley turned up the volume. “Of course they have names! The white one’s Rarity. The marks on their butts are called cutie marks. They tell you what talent each pony has. Each pony has a talent and their own cutie mark.”

He named the ponies for Aziraphale, explaining their talents. Aziraphale nodded, trying to keep enough track of this pony lore to keep his friend from getting upset anyway.

“Each story has a lesson, too,” Crowley explained. “If your lot were nicer, they might have written this show. It says something that humans had to come up with this show. Because the show’s all about being on the side of the angels, except ponies are nicer than humans or angels. Well, mostly. Have my doubts about that whole Celestia Nightmare Moon thing. I don’t think I’d forgive my sister if she stranded me on the moon for 1,000 years. That’s _too_ much, you know.”

Crowley poured another shot of brandy into the seemingly bottomless hot chocolate cup.

“The amazing thing is the knowledge the pony people manage to infuse into only 22 minutes of dialog and singing. Work together in a crisis. Don’t be mean to old ponies. Friends are more important than being famous or popular. The Great Dragon Migration just might not be for you.”

“The Great Dragon Migration?” Aziraphale asked without thinking. As Crowley opened his mouth, he quickly added: “Never mind. Another time.”

Crowley went on listing lessons.

“Don’t let power go to your head. Don’t make love potions. Never pet sit for friends. Never pet sit at all, for that matter. Watch out for miracle cure-all tonics. You can’t change the weather to keep your turtles with you. Sing. Sing whenever you bloody feel like it. Your friends will help you get your creativity back. Griffons don’t get cutie marks. Most demons are hurt, confused creatures who deserve to redeemed, although maybe not Hastur. Fashion is important. You can’t please everypony. A good pony shares her gifts with others. Sometimes what you think you want is not actually what you want. Don’t give up…”

“I SEE,” Aziraphale interjected, somewhat loudly to cut off more life lessons. _“_ Er… And this has something to do with your life’s purpose? Or have we changed the topic of discussion?”

“Griffons can’t get cutie marks,” Crowley continued. “But if they could, the ponies would have had a big problem. The griffon had choices, too many choices. It had talents all over the place. They even had a song for it – ‘Find the Purpose in Your Life.’ Here. It’s on YouTube.”

(The TV could play YouTube?! Was there no end to its perfidy? Aziraphale stared at the screen as Gabby the Griffon began to sing. He did not recognize the little ponies around her. More ponies... Oh, dear.)

I've just begun to fight

You're gonna help me find the purpose in my life

Got a job that's just no fun?

Call on me, I'll get it done

Cauldron's stuck and needs a mix?

I'm the one who's got the fix

Help you teach pre-calculus

Scrub the floors, won't make a fuss

Clearing kelp? Just give a yelp

Raring to go, ready to help!

“What’s kelp?” Aziraphale asked.

“Not sure. We’ll google it later. Some kind of aquatic plant life, I think.

“But that song lays out the problem. I mean, that explains it. You and me, Aziraphale, we’re different from Twilight Sparkle and the other ponies. We’ve got too many talents. I mean, I was a fucking nanny. I was a good one, too. You were a good gardener. You are a great bookstore owner. Well, unless people want to buy books. We both know that Discord really does come with chocolate rain and cotton candy clouds.”

“Ummm…”

“Stone the crows, Aziraphale, it’s the history of this whole planet. Everybody wants the chocolate rain and cotton candy. If the Spanish think the English have the cotton candy, next thing you know, there’s an armada sailing toward the shore.

“My Little Pony explains it all, Aziraphale, the whole history of the world. It even explains us. You can have amazing apples and you can have a wonderfully perfect, crispy crust. But only together can you have a perfect apple pie. Apart all we are is a pile of mush and some crumbly dry mess. Pretty sure Applejack came up with that one.”

“I think you really may be _too_ Brahms and Liszt, my dear,” Aziraphale said softly. 

“No, I’m not. You see, the important thing is -- ponies go bowling. They don’t even have fingers or thumbs. They don’t _need_ them. You just try to get your approach right with four legs. I imagine you even have to make special bowling hooves to protect the runway. Does that stop them? No. A pony can push the ball with her nose. You make do with what you have, see.”

Aziraphale picked up the hot chocolate cups, then set them down again. Instead, he picked up the brandy bottle, placing it down near a pile of books off to one side.

“Does your purpose in life have something to do with bowling, then?” he asked.

He smiled as Crowley laughed.

“No, but maybe it has everything to do with myths. King Sombra for example. Apparently King Sombra, a unicorn with a heart as black as night, took over the Crystal Empire 1000 years ago. Then for some reason he cursed the Empire and caused it to vanish into the thin air. I’m a little unclear on the details. Hatred and fear are bad, and lead to bad black crystals that can explode.

“That’s us, Aziraphale! Heaven and Hell were trying to curse the empire and make it vanish. Or turn it into a pile of goo, which is the same thing if you think about it. Why didn’t it happen?”

“We prevented it,” Aziraphale answered.

“How? You know, your purpose was all rolled up in this from the start. So was mine supposedly. We were supposed to prepare the way for the Antichrist and Armageddon.”

“Strictly speaking, I was supposed to stop the Antichrist,” Aziraphale corrected Crowley.

“Fine job of that.” Crowley turned the TV’s volume down a little. “Loved visiting that little fort he built last time we were in Tadfield.”

“We stopped him. Or he stopped them. The right people were stopped at the right time anyway somehow.” Aziraphale said.

“But how?”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows inquisitively. He figured there was not much point in trying to answer this question, which might even have to do with bowling somehow, but he knew Crowley was waiting for an answer.

“Ponies?” He ventured. 

“Exactly. Sort of. Six little ponies were the best hope of Equestria, no matter what the trouble. There’s trouble in every episode. The key is to remember this: Friendship is magic.

“What saved the world from eternal night? Six brave ponies went together into the Everfree Forest. Friendship, Aziraphale. Friendship saved the world.” Crowley’s words slurred slightly, but he seemed intent and focused as he explained: “There are always tests. In Heaven, Hell or Equestria. Beelzebub, God or Princess Celestia. There’s always bad stuff, too. Princess Celestia banished her sister Princess Luna on the moon. For 1,000 years! But Nightmare Moon – that’s Luna’s other name -- got another chance. Like me. I got another chance. Here I am. Somehow. I don’t exactly know how. But I do know this -- friendship is magic. Friendchip can save the world.

 _“That’s_ what saved our world. The fact that a demon and an angel loved each other and fought like hell to be together at the end of the world, fought to stop the world from ending, because in the end they had no place to be together except this one planet, Earth.”

Aziraphale nodded. This was making a little more sense than he had expected.

“And the Antichrist. If you listen to the kids’ stories – Newt does – you’ll find that friendship rescued Adam. You might think we rescued him; we were there at the right time to give him the clues he needed to stop his not-father, which stopped Armageddon. But we were only there because his three best friends all stood up to him at the right time. And he loved those friends. He did not want to rule the world if he ended up being alone. What good is owning the best fort in the forest if you have no friends?

“What would you do if your wings vanished? What would you do if Hastur planted plunder seeds beneath the bookstore? Not that your wings are in danger, you understand. Obviously, God let you keep them. Still, suppose for a minute they were gone? What would you do?”

“I’d ask God for help.” Aziraphale took a sip of hot chocolate.

“You were supposed to say you’d ask me for help.”

“Well, I’d do that too.”

“I’m Plan B? That’s alright then. The ponies always say, ‘Time for Plan B.’ Maybe they don’t always say that. Obviously Plan A has to work sometimes. Most of the time even. Be a silly world if Plan A _never_ worked.”

“Right,” Aziraphale said. “Ummm… I thought we started with your purpose in life. Are we still talking about that?”

“Oh, yes. Right on topic. So you want to find the truth in life, Aziraphale. What do you do?”

“Watch shows about ponies?”

“Not a bad place to start. I can teach you to use the remote. It’s not as hard as you think.”

“So have you found the truth in life? Or your purpose?”

“Let’s sober up,” Crowley said.

“Capital idea, my dear.” Aziraphale smiled brightly. He put the brandy back on the table and watched as the bottle refilled itself. A nearby Beaujolais bottle refilled itself as well.

Aziraphale looked across the table at the golden, reptilian eyes of his oldest friend. His eyes had suddenly sharpened. The intensity of their expression wiped away Aziraphale’s smile. Those eyes seemed dangerous somehow. If this had ever been a casual conversation, all trace of lightheartedness was gone. Crowley reached across the table and took Aziraphale’s hand, holding it tightly.

“You do realize you have entered an unending virtual game, my love,” Crowley said. “You won’t quite know the rules. The plan’s still ineffable, so the game will remain correspondingly incomprehensible. I will be happy to help you, but I can’t make this my life’s work. I don’t think I should. One of us is enough.

“If it helps, you should remember it took them 6,000 years to come up with that last plan, which was a total cock-up. It might take them another 6,000 to come up with Plan B. Also, I’m pretty sure God does not actually want to destroy this planet. I believe she quite likes it. I think she quite likes you. She may even like me, fallen or not. The fact that we’re here together suggests that rather strongly.

“I’d spare you your personal choice of a life’s purpose if I could, Aziraphale. You are going to be chasing the Pony of Shadows, changelings, magic mirrors and I can’t even imagine what other heavenly and hellish devices. You have set off on an endless chase. Let’s be clear: you and I spent years of our lives without even knowing that we had been following the wrong Antichrist. We never did find Adam. Agnes Nutter found him for us.

“Your plan to save this world? You are going to be deluged with information. I can already see you searching, searching, searching for possible plots. You will find plots, too, find them everywhere. This planet positively breeds conspiracy theories – evil genetically-modified plants, secret code in Chinese videos, or the always popular alien DNA. Put in ‘Antichrist’ in Google sometime, dearest. I got about 18,800,000 results when I tried last time. The internet is not your friend.”

Aziraphale was looking dismayed. He gulped.

“Yes,” Crowley said. “You still want to do it?”

“I have to,” Aziraphale said simply.

“I know you do,” Crowley whispered. He stood up and stepped around the table, pulling Aziraphale to his feet. He put his arms around Aziraphale, hugged him, kissed his cheek. Then he stepped back and started to remove Aziraphale’s cream-colored jacket.

“So many clothes, Aziraphale,” he said. “I rather miss togas.” He moved to the buttons of a slightly darker vest, a slight quirk to his lips. “Cufflinks even” He removed the cufflinks, moving on to the bowtie, and then the shirt. He paused to kiss Aziraphale, a long, slow probing kiss. He listened as the angel’s breathe quickened, listened to the breaths the angel did not need to take, felt the tremble as his hands ran along the angel’s back, cupped his buttocks. His hands moved to the belt around the pants. 

Eyes closed, Aziraphale lightly caressed Crowley’s face, the cheekbones and lips that he had always loved. How had it taken him so long to recognize that feeling?

“My life’s purpose?” Crowley said. “I think my purpose will be to take care of you. You save the world -- if you can. I will save you. Because without me, your quest to anticipate Gabriel, Beelzebub, and God is going to drive you right round the bend. Maybe not this year, maybe not the next, but without me you will be seeing aliens in boxcars and Antichrists in Persian restaurants soon. You need me. Desperately.”

“I always did,” Aziraphale whispered.

“I know.”

Crowley led Aziraphale toward the bedroom where together they shed their remaining clothing. He pulled Aziraphale back into his arms. The angel said nothing, an open and trusting expression on his face, as he let the world go, at least for a few hours. Aziraphale dropped his head gently onto Crowley’s shoulder, pressing a long, nuzzling kiss onto that shoulder. He moved his lips slowly upward, planting soft kisses along Crowley’s jaw and chin. Finally he probed that delicious mouth gently with his tongue, touching and tasting, feeling the answering touch as their tongues met and explored, a kiss that deepened until Aziraphale gave a faint moan.

Gently, Crowley pulled Aziraphale down onto the bed.


End file.
